


Revived

by nightcourthighlordrhysand



Series: Feysand [7]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Injury, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Post-Canon, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 12:57:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10899819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcourthighlordrhysand/pseuds/nightcourthighlordrhysand
Summary: Prompt: Rhys is sick and Feyre takes care of him





	Revived

**Author's Note:**

> I somehow missed this one when I was reposting everything from Tumblr so suprise!!

Even though the war had been over for nearly a decade, Hybern sympathizers still lingered on the outskirts of freedom loving Prythian.  They were among the few, and while their _political_ judgment was questionable in terms of intelligence, they were very capable in the battle and tactics department - if a little underhanded.  

This was what lead to Rhys’ state as a temporary invalid, kept to his bedroom under lock and key, as well as some less typical and more _mystical_ means care of a certain High Lady.  

The High Lord shifts uncomfortably in the broad bed, legs tucked beneath teh freshly laundered sheets and blankets.  He groans in frustration, shifting to place his feet on the plush carpet when a lancing pain shoots up his side and he remembers _why_ he was being subjected to well meaning imprisonment.

“It’s _not_ imprisonment if you’re ill.”

With a sigh, Rhysand reinforces the thick walls he’d let weaken in his distress as Feyre enters the room, plopping what’s presumably his lunch on the table nearest him.  “Who knew the most powerful High Lord was such a _baby_?”

He grumbles something about being over half a century old and not needing to be coddled as his nimble fingers reach for a slice of crusty bread perched on one of the plates.

Feyre slaps at his hand primly before tugging a chair over from the sitting area in their bedroom, dispersing their respective lunches before settling down in her seat.  “If you don’t behave yourself I’ll call Amren to nurse you back to health.”

Pausing with his buttered bread half dunked in the rich vegetable soup, Rhys grins mischievously as he purrs, “If you want to play nurse and patient all you had to do was -”

He’s cut off - not by more verbal sparring but by a certain vivid memory of the two of them not long after the war when they took advantage of a certain empty shop in Velaris that sold _lacy_ products that they’d discovered were particularly delicate.

When he comes back to himself, Feyre is looking at him through lowered lashes, lips parted enticingly as she speaks in a low drawl, “If you’re up to it, I won’t stop you, _High Lord_.”

Eager to take advantage of the departure from his mate’s earlier hard line, Rhysand quickly shifts to deposit his tray on the table, only to have crippling pain ripple up his side in pressing waves.

When he reopens his eyes - _when did they close?_ \- Feyre is brushing a cool cloth over his sweaty brow.  “Now will you listen and be good?”

Rhysand smirks despite his state.  “We both know I can’t be-”

A slim finger presses against his lips insistently as Feyre slips onto the bed next to him, her hip brushing his thigh as she continues her ministrations.  “The sooner you _listen_ the sooner we can get back to our regular _exercise_ routine.”

Somewhat defeated in the wake of his inability to best a lunch tray, Rhys settles back against his fluffed pillows as Feyre withdraws the cloth, puttering around on the end table, a crinkle in her brow as if solving some unknowable puzzle.

Soon enough, she grins triumphantly, she turns back to face him, a small jar in hand as she closes the distance between them in one stride, pressing a knee to the bed, and straddling his slim hips in a quick motion.

“I know I’m irresistible, but I thought we decided-”

Sitting back on his thighs, Feyre delivers a calculated pinch to his un-wounded forearm.  “It’s the best position to reach your injuries, _prick_.”

Before he can flirt back, a moan rips from his throat - and not the usual type that comes when Feyre is in this position - as careful fingers probe the slashes up the right side of his ribcage and shoulder.  The salve begins with a sort of tingling heat before cooling and nearly numbing the pain, although he can still feel the pull of shredded skin as he takes a steadying breath.

Feyre wipes her hands on a towel, the tosses it toward her abandoned seat and settling onto her customary side of the bed.  

After minimal shifting, she lifts the blankets and extends her arms welcomingly.  He studies her face a moment, expression hard to an outsider, but as the one closer to her than any other, he quickly sees the slight tremble of her lip and the glassy sheen in her gaze.

Adjusting carefully, he’s soon tucked between her legs, her delicate fingers carding through his dark locks.  “I nearly stormed down to the cells in the Court of Nightmares this morning.”

Rhys answers by tightening his grip around her middle, inviting her to elaborate.

She sighs, a deep exhale of frustration and relief as she continues, “If anyone but Azriel had stepped in and told me they’d handle it, I wouldn’t have stopped.  I’d’ve gone and-”

Placing a gentle kiss to her breastbone, Rhys lets his hand brush up her arm gently.  “Don’t do that, not for me.  I’m not-”

Feyre’s grip on his hand tightens, “No.  You’re not allowed to finish that sentence.  You’re _always_ worth it - you’re worth everything to me.  I’d gladly go to hell and back for you and not regret a moment except the time we’d missed together.”

He nods against her chest, muscles relaxing slowly into hers as he allows the calming influence of the salve come into effect, eyelids drooping.

As he slips closer to slumber, Feyre’s damp lips press against his hair line.  “Get some rest.  You’ve got important things to do once you’re healed.”

He grunts in agreement, mind fluttering to the ongoing negotiations with the other High Lords, renewed peace proceedings with the human realm, and the countless standard duties associated with his position in the Night Court.

Before he can get swept away in the stress of it all, Feyre murmurs in that enticing voice she saves for him alone, “The _first_ of which will be following through on your patient-nurse idea.”


End file.
